Me and the Burly Arm of Justice

I made friends with a police officer this Saturday. Well, kind of--it's an odd relationship. We're definitely buddies, but I hope I never see him again.

Saturday night my apartment was stuffed with food and people and music. My roommates and I were throwing a grand 'ol Doppleganger Party and it was growing and growing every hour. By ten o'clock people were standing on our couches because every inch of the floor was already claimed. When the dance music finally started, the walls and cabinets rocked and tipped with the jumping of thirty or more people. It was around this time that one of my friends rushed up to me. 

"Bekah!"

I set my glass down and grabbed a napkin. "What?" I said.

"The cops are here."

I smiled. "Good one."

"No really," he pointed toward the front door over the heads of the crowd. "He's outside. He wants to talk to you."

"Really?"

He nodded.

I pushed my way back through the crowd and stumbled out the front door. The cop was at the bottom of the stairs. As I stepped down to meet him I noticed his hand resting on his gun. 

Oh man, I thought.

"This your apartment?" he asked.

"Yes sir." I went to brush the hair out of my face and felt the giant flower in my wildly scraggly, curly hair. It was part of my costume. I was supposed to be Mother Earth, the Sun's (a.k.a. my roommate's) doppleganger. I blushed and pulled the lime green flower out of my hair.

He pulled out a small notebook from his back pocket. "Throwing a party?" he said.

I nodded and scratched my arm. "It's a doppleganger party." I showed him the flower in my hand. 

He raised an eyebrow and then scribbled something down on his notepad.

"We got a couple calls from your neighborhood," he said. "About some disturbing chanting."

I blinked. "Chanting?"

"Mm hm."

"What kind of chanting?"

He looked at the tip of his pencil. "Ritual chanting," he said.

"Really?"

He nodded again. "You know anything about that?"

I thought a moment. "I don't know..." I looked behind me at the windows of my apartment. "Rituals?"

He nodded and tapped his pencil.

"Um, well, we all sang along to 'Don't Stop Believin' by Journey a while ago..." 

We stared at each other. 

"...and we were all in unison?" I said.

He stared at me for a moment before he suddenly looked down at his hands. 

I could have sworn I saw the beginnings of a grin. 

He cleared his throat. "What's your first name?" he asked gruffly.

"Rebekah." I watched him position his pencil on the paper. 

"It's spelled a little differently, though," I said.

He looked up and I pointed at his notepad.
"It's the Biblical spelling," I said. "Like the Rebekah in the Bible. My parents named us all after religiously historical figures," I said quietly.

He nodded and slowly spelled my name in his record.

I shrugged and fingered the petals of the flower in my hand. 

"We're all really religious..." I mumbled.

That's when he chuckled. 

I looked up to see him close his notebook. 

"I don't doubt it," he said.

I blushed. 

He pointed behind me toward the apartment. "Make sure you turn down the noise, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"If I have to come back here for more chanting it's a $500 citation."

"Got it."

He smiled, shook his head, and then walked back to his car.

So now we're star-crossed acquaintances.

A whopping $500 guarantees we'll never see each other again.

Too bad.

I would have definitely invited him to my next party.

I'm a "life experience" thief

A couple days ago I told my friend one of my favorite childhood memories.

     "I was like five years old," I said.
     He swallowed a spoonful of frozen yogurt. "So you were living in your Michigan house."
     "Mm hm. And I was playing with my best friend, Lisa."
     I poked at the kiwi slices in my bowl. "In my old house we had this exercise bench in the basement that my brothers lifted weights on, and Lisa and I used to tilt the back of the bench up so we could slide down on our blankets."
     "Did it work?"
     I nodded. "Kind of--the whole ride only lasted about two seconds, but it was a novelty so we loved it."

     A group of girls suddenly walked past our table and sat down at the counter behind us. I noticed the television above them was featuring a documentary on the rainforest. I watched as the camera followed a giant catfish propel itself out of the river to snatch a beetle from one of the branches hanging over the water.
     "It's like Planet Earth," I whispered to myself.
     "Hm?" He looked behind him. We both watched as the film explained the dangers of fishing. A man struggled to pull a fat, yellow catfish into his little makeshift canoe .
     "Anyway," I said, smiling and looking back to my yogurt. "We played on it all the time. Then one day, as we were fighting to go down at the same time, I fell and hit my chin on the metal supports."
     "Ow."
     "I know. That's why I have this little scar." I pointed at my chin.
     "I don't see anything," he said.
     "Really?" I blinked and put my hand to my chin. "I could have sworn..."

Then it hit me.

     "Oh my gosh," I said.

     "What?"

     I covered my face. "I've been living a lie."
     I looked up and noticed a sloth on the television fall from it's tree and land in the river.

     He laughed. "Did you just make that whole story up?"

     "No," I said, "it really happened! But I just realized it happened to Lisa and not me..."

     "So, you really don't have a scar?"

     "No," I laughed. "I've totally been stealing someone else's memory!"

     "I feel like we're in Inception..." he said.

     "If we were, my totem would have to be a dumbbell. It's only appropriate."

     "Agreed."

     I shook my head. "I must have told that story a million times."

     We sat quietly for a moment eating our yogurt. After a minute or so he suddenly pushed his yogurt away and folded his arms.
     "Bekah...?" he said.

     "Hm." I set my spoon down and grabbed my napkin. 

     He looked around the room, raised an eyebrow and then leaned across the table.

     "Is Lisa real?" he asked.

Now I feel like a sloth that's been pushed out of someone else's tree.

Good thing I'm an excellent swimmer.

As a little girl I remember learning to swim in the Demerara River amidst yellow cat fish and beetles.

Wait... 

"...And Carry a Big Stick"

Sunday night it rained and rained.

At around 9:30pm some of my friends came over and we decided to revel in the downpour by running to the park down the street. We jumped in puddles, threw slushy snow, pretended to be Gene Kelly. Overall, we were pretty raucous. While the water slushed in our shoes and dripped from our noses we laughed and splashed our way toward the park. About five minutes into our trek I noticed a huge branch that had fallen on the ground and suddenly remembered something I've always been curious about--
"Wait!" I said, turning to the three guys in our group.  "I have a question for the men."
They stopped splashing and turned to look at me. I smiled and walked toward the giant branch on the ground.
"If you guys were little boys again, would you pick this up?"
Sage shrugged his shoulders. "I'd pick it up right now."
"But what would you do with it?" I asked.
"Just carry it around," Jake said. "Peel off the bark and stuff."
Chris walked over to examine the branch. "This one isn't that good, though," he said. "It's too thin."
Jake walked up beside Chris and broke off a couple twigs. "If you took off the little sticks it'd work," he said.
We all gathered around the tree branch and considered it. After a few seconds I shook my head.
"When I played with my little brother growing up he always picked up random sticks."
The guys nodded approvingly.
"Good man," Sage mumbled to himself.
Jake tapped the branch with his toe and sighed. "I should have brought my pocket knife," he said.

When I was a little girl I slept with a plastic Godzilla doll because it was fearsome and would eat any aliens that tried to melt me with their acid spray.

Now that makes sense to me.   

Can You Keep a Secret

I am the sole observer of an international ruse. 

While stuck in traffic Saturday I tried to memorize other people's license plates and, occasionally, looked to see what air fresheners were hanging from their rear view mirrors. In the truck next to me there was an older man wearing a blue windbreaker, and while he didn't have air fresheners he did have a whole stack of papers in his back window that flipped and flopped with the breeze. The flopping kept catching my attention, but each time I looked I'd accidentally make eye contact with him. When our eyes would locked we'd smile slightly, nod, and then pretend to change the radio station. After the fourth or fifth time I felt really sheepish so I turned to look out my other window. I noticed Burger Supreme on the corner and decided to watch people walk in and out of it's doors instead. 
While I was looking I suddenly noticed a man step out of his car a few feet away from the front doors of the restaurant. He stood up, looked around suspiciously, and then lifted his coat slightly to adjust his belt. I thought he was just pulling up his pants when I caught a glimpse of something under his coat. All of a sudden I saw it clearly.


A gun was tucked into the back of his pants. 


I stood up straighter in my chair and leaned over the passenger seat to see better. He quickly adjusted the gun behind his belt and then pulled his coat back down. He turned to look behind him and then stuck his hands into his pockets. 
Another man then stepped out of the car. This one stretched his arms up over his head, yawned, and wiped at his mouth. 
The gunman then scratched the back of his neck and pointed at Burger Supreme. A second later he suddenly put a hand to his ear. He looked down, nodded, said something into his coat, and then motioned toward the restaurant with his head. They both locked the car doors and walked inside. 
I stared at their car for a second before leaning back into my seat. When I looked to see if anyone else had noticed I made eye contact with the man next to me again. 
He smiled, nodded his head slightly, and scooted his truck forward.


Oh my gosh, I thought to myself. They're probably undercover cops. They're on some Drug Lord's trail and they need a bit of beef to tide them over.


I looked back at the restaurant. 
After five minutes, I decided to memorize their license plate too. Just in case.
When traffic started moving again I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. 

Best to let them do their thing, I suppose.

I wish I could have talked the whole thing over with my traffic neighbor. He would have given good advice, I think.

"Write the whole thing down," he'd say. "Write it all down and throw it into the back of your car."

"Won't it get lost back there?" I'd say. "Shouldn't I talk to the police or something?"

"Oh, no," he'd smile. "Trust me."

And I would. Because he had kind eyes.

Making eye-contact seven times really reveals the inner workings of a person's soul. 

Making Pappy Proud

I discovered an important characteristic about my family 

over Christmas break. 

We're inherently rascals.

My great great grandfather, a wily Mexican Cowboy, would sure be proud to know that his posterity is faithfully continuing his rather mischievous legacy.

Let me explain.

My grandmother spent Christmas at the Washburn home this year. She was sufficiently surrounded by Skip-O, Montreal steak, and horror movies--which is the Washburn way. Before Christmas Eve, she, my mom and I went shopping for last minute groceries. We bundled up in our coats and gloves, squeezed ourselves into the minivan, and headed for Target. As we were walking through the doors, we were greeted by three shrill beeps.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Oh gracious," my grandma said. "Here we go."
I turned to see her looking towards the cashiers.
"It's okay, Grandma. It's not us," I said.
"No," my mom said, adjusting the strap of her purse. "It is. It's Grandma."
My grandma nodded her head.
I looked around the store quickly. "Do you have something in your bag?" I asked,
She shook her head. "It happens every time. I've been setting off alarms all week."
"Really?"
She nodded her head again.
"Do you have a pace-maker? That might set it off," my mom said.
"No." My grandma looked down at her purse. "Maybe it's my phone."
We spent the next five minutes taking bits and pieces from my grandma and then sending her through the sensors. First her phone, then her belt, then her coat. It beeped every time.
The teenager manning the food court gave us a funny look.
"This is so crazy," I said. "You must exude crafty-ness."
My mom smiled. "The only place she doesn't set things off is at Costco."
"Probably because she's a card member," I said. "They wouldn't inhibit their own kind."

A few weeks later, while I was making my way through airport security, I was stopped by an elderly man with bright, bright blue eyes.
"Excuse me," he said. "This your bag?" He walked out from behind the viewing monitor and held up my carry-on.
"Yes, that's mine."
"I'm gonna have to take a look," he said. "If you'd follow me to this table over here."
We stood side by side as he rifled through my socks and sweaters. After a moment he pulled out a sixteen ounce container of off-brand face wash.
He raised an eyebrow.
I scratched the back of my neck and smiled.

I wanted to explain that it runs in my family. That we just have a hard time with grocery store sensors and airport X-ray monitors.

But I have a feeling he wouldn't understand.

The rascally are perpetually misunderstood.